


These Hands Fight for You

by School_Of_The_Cat



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Blood, Fight Club AU, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Injury, M/M, Mild Smut, Protectiveness, Slow Burn, cascas jealous, i live for griffith and guts content so, they depend on each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:22:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25080817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/School_Of_The_Cat/pseuds/School_Of_The_Cat
Summary: They met during a street fight.Not a particularly pleasant way to meet someone, perhaps, but it was special because it was how they had met. Scuffles in a filthy back alley leading nowhere.He was attracted by the sound of grunts and the dull thud of fists hitting flesh. Blood was spat on the ground, and the loser cowered into the shadows as the winner stood upright: his prize? split knuckles and a black eye. Whatever had drawn them together some might’ve described as fate, but he liked to describe it as a business deal. He approached the wild beast, adrenaline still fresh in the fighter’s veins, eyes wide and black, blood wet between his teeth. He touched him, for a moment, white hands against that tanned face.“I want you.”And the deal was made.
Relationships: Griffith/Guts (Berserk)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	1. Unpleasantries

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this a dumb au I came up with bc I live for the gang in a modern-day setting! Sorry I make Griffith dress like a whore lmao

They met during a street fight.

Not a particularly pleasant way to meet someone, perhaps, but it was special because it was how _they_ had met. Scuffles in a filthy back alley leading nowhere.

He was attracted by the sound of grunts and the dull thud of fists hitting flesh. Blood was spat on the ground, and the loser cowered into the shadows as the winner stood upright: his prize? split knuckles and a black eye. Whatever had drawn them together some might’ve described as fate, but he liked to describe it as a business deal. He approached the wild beast, adrenaline still fresh in the fighter’s veins, eyes wide and black, blood wet between his teeth. He touched him, for a moment, white hands against that tanned face.

“I want you.”

And the deal was made. 

* * *

“Griffith.”

Guts' voice came low and hoarse, making Griffith adjust the fur collar around his neck. 

“You’ll be living at my club now that you’re working with me, this point non-negotiable I’m afraid.” He gave his partner a quick once-over. “Doubt you’ve been living in luxury up to this point anyways. What was your last job, hitman-for-hire?” 

He avoided his gaze. “Whatever fed me for the night.” 

“Listen. My Hawks are notorious winners, know why? Unlike those other half-baked clubs, I take care of my fighters.” 

The building was an old boxing club that had been bought and sold, traded hands until it’d been taken hostage by Griffith’s people. The ring took centre stage of the main floor, with suspended ceilings and cloudy windows opening the room up like a cathedral. On the second floor were an office and a spare room. 

Introductions were made with the other fighters; Corkus, a former thief, the ex-miner Pippin, and the circus tumbler Judeau. Lastly, there stood a tan-skinned woman with short hair. 

“Casca, this is…”

“Guts.” He shook the woman’s hand. 

“He’s staying here with you?” She shot Griffith a sidelong glance, ignoring the new recruit’s introduction. 

Griffith nodded, which made Casca’s face twist uncomfortably. She pulled her boss to the side by the sleeve, whispering angrily in a hushed tone. Guts stood awkardly as the two blatantly spoke about him only inches away. He hated working with groups like this, having to deal with the unpleasantries of it all. He knew what he was, and what he was capable of. He knew how he’d easily surpassed every single opponent he’d ever faced. Most of all he knew that it intimidated people. In all honesty, he’d been stunned when Griffith had first approached him, white leather jacket with fur trim, slender limbs and red lips. He was nothing like what he was used to dealing with, and he had expected him to fold just like the rest of them. But...

“I want you. You fight beautifully. I want you to join my fight club in the city.” 

The statement was shocking in itself. _Want_ him? Of course, his gut response was immediately to say no. He’d played in the fighting scene before, and he knew how it went. Why would it be any different with him working under this posh freak? 

“Fight me. If you lose, you belong to me. But if you win, you can do as you like.” 

Another curve-ball. Griffith was smart, however, striking a nerve. All Guts really understood well was violence. A split lip, a cracked tooth, a bloodied eye, whatever it was he knew it all so well.

The first punch he swung was light, gentle almost, afraid of breaking the porcelain figure that glowed under the yellow streetlights. Griffith nimbly stepped aside, evading the blow, standing lightly on the balls of his feet. Another swing and it failed to connect as well, causing him to stumble. 

_What?_

The third punch wasn’t swung by him, which was a realization he came to only after pain began to bloom across his left cheekbone, the skin crushed between silver metal and delicate fingers. Griffith stepped back, light as a dancer, brass knuckles glinting in the streetlight, mimicking his arrogant grin. He was beautiful, standing there for that brief second, hair like starlight, white and loose around his face. Guts felt the next punch in his stomach, then his head, and then that beautiful starlight was the last thing he saw as he felt his eyelids slide shut. 

Now he was sitting in the bastard’s office as he pressed ice against his bruises. 

Fuck. this.


	2. Interference

Guts woke up to an unfamiliar tile ceiling, wooden blades of a fan turning lazily overhead. He heard voices downstairs, arguing. 

“You saw his fucking tattoos! And that he beat that thug Bazuso to a pulp; Griff you can’t be serious with this guy!” 

Ah. Guts recognized the voice of the tanned woman from before.

“You didn’t see him fight. He’s fascinating, the way he moves, everything. He’s an asset to us, Casca.”

Griffith said that next part. Guts felt his chest clench.

He knew when he wasn’t welcome. Sitting up, he had half a mind to abandon this fight club altogether, but his face suddenly burned where Griffith had touched it yesterday. 

_I want you._

He jumped when the door to the room swung open and Griffith entered looking frustrated. He was graceful as ever, face as pretty as Guts had remembered it.

_Damn, I didn’t even land a single punch on the guy._

“Sorry, I hope we didn’t wake you. Casca’s one of our oldest members, so she’s always sceptical with new recruits. Don’t take it personally.” 

He offered Guts a steaming mug, their fingers touching briefly as it exchanged hands. He felt tense. 

The morning was still somewhat fresh, and Griffith sat half-perched on the desk adjacent to the bed, a gentle smile on his face as he let the morning light filter in from the window. 

“It’s raining out.”

“yeah.”

An awkward silence followed, making Guts shifted uncomfortably. He wished Griffith would leave. He was used to dealing with tough guys, thick-skulled monkeys with scars and broken noses, but Griffith was so unlike anything he’d ever seen. He was one of the faces he saw behind the glossy pages of a magazine, calculated and symmetrical, pale skin and pouty mouth. Even being in the same room as him was stressful somehow as if he was daring him to keep up, all the while observing his every vibration. Eventually, Griffith sighed and got up from his perch, leaving the room with a flourish of lavender. 

———

Guts quickly learned that training with Casca was like trying to avoid being beaten to death. She was ruthless with the first strike, surprisingly powerful and catching him completely off-guard. She was quick and danced around him, not dissimilarly to how Griffith fought, except the roping muscles in her shoulders showed that she had more power behind her than he did, (brass knuckles aside). 

She liked to yell too. A sort of gladiatorial battle cry which startled Guts immensely the first time he heard it. She landed three solid punches until he managed to block, and even then it was a shaky one at best. Her nails caught his cheek with the next swipe, and he tasted blood, hitting the ground. Griffith emerged and called a recess. Suddenly his hands were on Guts, holding a cloth to the wound. He pushed Griffith away with a grunt. 

“Fuck off, pretty boy.”

The next round Guts was the first to land a punch, and it was a solid one, dragging deep into Casca’s jaw. She retaliated with a kick, which he blocked, grabbing her leg and twisting, eliciting a pained cry. She grabbed his hair, dragging him in so their foreheads were bumping.

“Why the fuck does he think you’re so special? You’re no different than any of the other apes Griff brings back here. Don’t get comfortable with all his special treatment.” She let go of Guts’ scalp and spit at his feet, declaring the match to be over. 

The rain continued long into the evening, and Guts still felt his cheek throb where Casca had scratched him. For his first encounter with another member of the Band of the Hawks, he had to admit he was impressed. And from a woman too, the beating was quite substantial. 

The club was empty now, devoid of the arguing and ambient chatter he had heard earlier that day. Casca’s words stayed with him, resonant in his skull; 

“ _don’t get comfortable with his special treatment._ ” 

He had to admit, Griffith was doting, but wasn’t he like that with all the members? He’d told him earlier that he attributed his care for his fighters to their success. That uneasiness from earlier returned, creeping up his stomach into his chest. 

“Have you eaten yet?” Griffith’s voice was deafening in the silence, despite being barely above a whisper. 

“No, leave me alone.” 

There was a beat of silence where Guts had wondered if he’d actually listened to him before he felt the bench beside him shift slightly with a gentle weight. 

“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” 

Guts shrugged. 

More silence. 

“You’re mine. Don’t forget that.”

The bench shifted again as Griffith got up, leaving a plate of spaghetti on the floor next to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guts wasting spaghetti, this is so sad


	3. You Lose

By the third week of being a member of the Hawks and having his ass beaten by Casca every day, Guts was finally enrolled into his first official match. It wasn’t quite a street fight, like the ones he usually participated in, but it wasn’t exactly a professional boxing match either. A church basement seemed like a somewhat ironic place to spill blood in, but even still, he had to admit that having Casca hurling insults at him every day had him itching for a brawl. A real one, one where he could push his fist as far as he wanted into some guy’s skull without consequence. 

The basement was dimly lit and packed with about fifty sweaty criminals, all waving bills around, placing bets, making deals, and spending money. Coke was passed around, as well as booze, and amongst the muddy crowd of filthy deadbeats, Griffith still stood like a pillar of clean ivory, his hair loose around his fur collar and white leather tight against his skin. 

Lately, he’d become submissive, almost radio-silent. He’d been distant, making phone calls late at night and spending most days out with other members of the Hawks. It irritated Guts, almost as much as Casca’s insults had, _and it irritated him that he was irritated_ , or that he even cared at all. He sat on a bench at the far end of the concrete room, tying bandages around his knuckles and cursing Griffith’s name under his breath.

_pretentious bastard._

His opponent was at least half a foot taller than himself, which was saying something, considering Guts was quite large in stature. He was Italian, which made him wonder if he was mafia - like a lot of these guys probably were, and he had more hair on his body than Guts had ever seen on a man. Apparently his nickname was Mammoth. Fitting. 

Judging from the length and thickness of the angry vein pulsating on his forehead, Guts knew he needed to avoid getting hit by this guy at all costs. He tried to formulate a plan, head buzzing with possible ways to avoid the potential onslaught when his eye met Griffith’s from across the room. 

_I want you._

_Dammit_. 

He hauled himself from the bench, cracking his knuckles as the match was starting to wind up. Most of the bets had been made and the men were sitting down now, eager to watch the bloodbath ensue. He faced the angry Italian Goliath on the opposite end of a crudely drawn chalk circle, feet numb and head fuzzy. He thought for a brief moment that he might lose this match before he felt the warm lavender breath of Griffith’s lips behind his ear;

“Win this one for me, Guts.”

The match started and Guts’ blood was on fire, landing the first blow, clean and brutal, twisting into his opponent’s stomach. The warmth from Griffith’s breath was still on his skin, buzzing like a shot of adrenaline. The crowd roared, the Italian beast crumpling like paper, and when he hit the ground the room went electric. Money was tossed, fighting broke out, and long eager fingers found his arm, warm with a gentle pressure, white hair swimming in the dim yellow basement. He was smiling, eyes pressed half-closed with ecstasy, pink lips pulled back to reveal his perfect teeth. Guts could feel his heartbeat through his fingertips. 

“Let’s get a drink.”

———

“You bet it all that I would win in one punch?”

Griffith nodded over his third vodka seltzer, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Yep, all the money the club has saved right now. Of course, it wasn’t exactly a gamble when I knew you’d win it all back.”

“How’d you know?”

Their eyes met.

“Because there’s something about you, Guts. We’re bound by something, and you’re different from any fighter I’ve seen before.” Griffith took a sip of his drink. “It’s almost like once you’ve decided to do something, you’ll do it, even if it means to defy death itself.” 

Guts broke the gaze to stare into his whisky. 

“Thought you were mad at me for wanting to leave.”

This amused Griffith as he took another sip of his drink, chuckling lightly. 

“I know better than anyone that true wild beasts cannot be held by any cage. If you left I wouldn’t have followed you. However, I knew you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t?”

“No. As I said, you’re _mine_. I felt it in the alleyway when I first met you. I felt it in your fighting.”

Guts downed his drink in one go, desperately trying to extinguish the discomfort fizzling in his stomach. His face felt warm from the liquor. A peal of girlish laughter escaped from Griffith as he watched, then swiftly did the same. He held his empty glass up in a toast, face flushed from the warm beginnings of intoxication. 

“To us.”

Guts raised his glass to meet his partners. 

As they stumbled back to the club, Griffith remembered the sensation of Guts’ powerful arms supporting him as they walked, the smell of whisky and sweat falling away from his skin. A hand shifted lower on his waist, breath suddenly warm and close. He felt himself fumble for his keys, trip over a bench in the abandoned club, and collapse in his office, warm in his bed. He would later forget that Guts had joined him, sitting on the floor beside his bed for the rest of the night, head resting gently on his arm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas is it gay to have feelings for the man who owns u just asking for a friend


	4. Speed Bump

“heard you declined my offer, my boy.”

Griffith felt the weight of his brass knuckles in his jacket pocket. He hated the stale grey air of cigar smoke the old man always gave off. His guards, big brutish oafs with gold teeth and scarred faces leered down at him, dripping with murderous intent. The old man looked at him with a lecherous hunger that made his stomach ache. 

“Apologies, don Gennon, but my Hawks no longer need funding from the mafia. I was clear about this.”

“Yes, and that new dog of yours is sure to be quite the moneymaker, eh?” 

Griffith looked away. 

“Why don’t you visit me anymore, hmm? I always treated you well, didn’t I?”

“As I said, I will always appreciate your help in getting our club on its feet, but I’m no longer making deals with your family. I want to be completely independent.” 

“You want to rule the underworld through fighting, is that it?”

Griffith had never said it aloud, but the idea made his head spin. Born into poverty, he was forced into crime at a young age, joining a street gang, and eventually, a fight club. He’d always lived under some criminal’s thumb, his entire life spent compromising for someone else’s dream. Forming his club, the Hawks, was the first taste of success he’d ever had, and it made his ambition swell with greed. Yes, he wanted to own the underground fighting scene. And he could see himself at the top, with Guts by his side. With Guts, he felt as if he could almost taste success. 

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, don, but I have to be getting back to the club. I won’t be throwing my matches for you anymore, our contract is finished.”

A greedy hand shot out from across the desk to grip the supple flesh. 

“Oh my angel, I miss your body, Griff. I can’t sleep anymore, you won’t stop haunting me.”

disgusted, Griffith pulled his hand away, eyes wide and terrified. Then he ran, heels resonating against the cracked asphalt, out and away from that place, before even the guards could stop him, as swiftly as the wind itself, white shoes turning grey from the muddy rainwater that dripped down the streets of the city. Hot tears stung his eyes and he turned into an alley, sinking to the ground with a sob. The bile turned in his stomach. 

It wasn’t his fault. He had to make sacrifices to get to where he was, just like everyone else. But even still, memories of the old man’s greedy fingers clung to his thoughts like a spiderweb, perverse and terrifying. He gagged, covering his mouth, shaking with sobs in the darkness of the alley. 

“I’ll kill that fucking bastard.”

* * *

“We’ve hit a bit of a speed bump.”

The Hawk members were gathered around in a circle in the centre of the studio, listening intently to their boss.

“Since when is this news? Last time I checked we ran an _illegal fight club_ , what about that says ‘bump-free’ to you?” Corkus piped up, the others mumbling their agreement.

“We might have an issue with the mafia in the near future.”

The room was suddenly silent again.

“Mafia? What the fuck, I thought they were our allies?” Casca spoke this time, shrill and incredulous. 

“They were until we were able to support ourselves and stopped taking their money to throw matches. The don and I don’t see eye-to-eye anymore, especially now with people beginning to say our club is the best in the city.”

“He’s intimidated?” Judeau spoke up. 

Griffith bit his lip but smiled nonetheless. 

“It might not end up being an issue at all, I just want you all to be aware. The last thing I want is for them to catch us off guard.”

The gang was dismissed and they scattered off in their different directions, some packing up equipment for the day and others conversing quietly with each other. Casca trailed closely behind Griffith, following him outside for a smoke.

“What the hell happened, Griff? I thought the mafia was cool with us, what did you do to piss them off?”

“I refused to throw last night’s match, that’s all.” A match was struck, shared between the two of them. 

“Why? It’s not like we couldn’t use the money. And besides, we damn well could use the _protection_ that comes with working with those guys. I mean, they basically gave us immunity in this city.”

“I wanted Guts to win. I wanted to see him beat that man down with his own hands. I wanted to feel the thrill of a victory won by my own volition. And besides,” Griffith took a breath of smoke, “Guts isn’t the kind of guy you tell to lose a fight on purpose. He’s wild,” exhale, “and he’s mine.”

The last part was quieter and didn’t seem to sit especially well with Casca, as her face twisted into a scowl, stomping out the cigarette she’d barely touched. 

“You’re telling me you’re willing to risk the safety of the entire crew for that _fuck_? So what, he’s wild, we’re all wild. That doesn’t mean shit. Why are you so soft on him, anyway? What’s so special about him? I’ve never seen you treat anyone the way you treat him.”

Griffith looked distant. He let the ash fall from his cigarette onto the tops of his white running shoes, unblinking. His mouth was dry and wordless. It was not an unreasonable question in the slightest; Casca was right. He was different around Guts. He was letting him _live_ with him for fucks sake. But why? Because he could fight? That’s what he’d been telling himself thus far at least; that he was his ticket out of the mafia’s cage, out of being ruled over by criminals. But there was something else there, and he could see it if he looked close enough. He could see it in the precious few times he smiled, in the dimple that formed on his right cheek when he laughed. He could see it in the tiny scar on the bridge of his nose, in his unruly eyebrows and short, coarse hair that spiked out in all directions from his scalp. It was there, distantly, in the tiny ways they’d look at each other, quietly, when the whole world fell away and there was only Guts and the security he provided. The future Giffith saw before him always had Guts by his side. 

He snuffed out his cigarette and Casca bit back tears as she turned away back into the club. 

“Everything ok?” Guts’ voice came smooth and deep, and Griffith felt instantly relaxed by his presence. He was poking his head out of the door that Casca had stormed away into, black eyes wide and curious. 

“Yes,” Griffith replied, “always.” 


	5. Smoking Gun

Guts never had the money to take up smoking, however, the club always seemed to have a pack available. All the fighters would bum one-off each other, and, as Guts was slowly accepted into the group by his peers, he too would start borrowing off people, his main source being from Judeau since he took to Guts the fastest of the others fighters. Guts was somewhat surprised to see that even Griffith smoked with the fighters on their breaks. It made sense, of course, considering his background and all, but Guts still thought he was too dainty for such a recreation. Of course, his cigarettes were nothing like the crude hand-rolled ones the others smoked. His were the skinny menthol type with the pink filters. Griffith was the only one who never shared his cigarettes, but the guys respected it because, well frankly, his were probably too light for any of them anyways.

It was evening and the neon lights of the city were turning on gradually, painting the club and surrounding buildings with pinks and blue hues. Guts was sitting on the roof of the club, letting himself become hypnotized by the cigarette balancing between Griffith’s long slender fingers. It wavered slightly, bouncing between his index and middle finger, lightly hovering, awaiting a generous drag from between his soft pink lips. He liked watching him smoke, the way he gently bit the filter between his teeth and how he let the burning stick dangle so effortlessly in those pale hands. It was as if he were posing the most philosophical question ever asked, just by the simple act of breathing in grey air. The neon lights were brighter now, reflective against his white hair. 

“It’s funny, Guts, though we met only just a little over a month ago now, I feel as if I’ve known you longer.”

“Perhaps we’ve met in a different life.”

Griffith chuckled.

“Doubt that. Surely I’d have remembered you.” 

The nightlife of the city hummed gently, peacefully, just as the gang had felt the week following Guts’ first match. After Griffith had mentioned his encounter with the mafia, the days had been so warm and slow that everyone had nearly forgotten it entirely. A bottle could be heard breaking two alleys over. A cat meowed somewhere nearby. Griffith and Guts sat in blissful silence, merely revelling in the peace that they’d been gifted these past few days.

“The city at night is a different creature than during the day. The lights are painterly and the people are tired and peaceful. I thought that, if I were ever to escape this shithole, I’d miss the nights the most.”

“Thinking about leaving?”

Griffith hummed in response, relaxing in his position. Guts felt warmth bloom across his thigh where their legs touched, sitting side by side. Lightheaded, he took another smoke. 

“Want to try one of mine?” 

Griffith held his cigarette pointedly as he posed the question, pink filter and all. Guts took it, curiously, ash falling from its tip, already lit. He could see the indents from where Griffith’s teeth had held it between his lips. His blood felt thick.

“It’s menthol, so you might hate it. I know the guys can’t stand it, not even Casca. They say it’s too light for them, go figure.”

Guts placed the pink end between his lips, tasting the residue from Griffith’s cherry lip gloss. He took a drag, then coughed horribly, handing the cigarette back to him. A peal of laughter escaped the other. 

“I warned you about the flavour!” 

It wasn’t the flavour of the smoke that made him cough, rather, it was the cherry that clung to the back of his throat. He suddenly found his himself distracted byGriffith’s lips. He wanted to bite down onto that plush bottom lip, feel the warmth of his skin against his own. He wanted to taste his spit. 

“Griff, you up here? There’s something you need to see.” 

Casca’s voice broke through the night air shrill and sobering, and Guts looked away, feeling suddenly ashamed. _What was that about? All he did was offer you a cigarette, calm down._

Clicking his tongue, Griffith ground the pink filter underneath his heel and got up. He stood a moment longer, the city lights softly illuminating his face, and smiled, before heading back down into the club. 

What awaited for him inside was an envelope full of money. A condom was taped to the outside of the package, next to a signature from the don. The back read a lengthy description of how he planned to tear Guts apart as he made Griffith watch. 

For the first time since founding the Hawks, Griffith showed weakness in from of them. He doubled over, vomit hitting the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof sorry this chapters upsetting


	6. Hard and Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey just a heads up there's implied sexual abuse and a lot of blood in this chapter stay safe kids

Griffith didn’t sleep anymore. Guts heard him moving around the office adjacent to his room at all hours of the night while he lay still and quiet in his bed. He spent hours shuffling papers, making phone calls, and slowly filling the room with smoke and stress. The space below his eyes started to look dark and sunken, exhaustion raking at his thin frame. But despite still looking so poised in front of the gang, Guts knew how his eyes became sharpened with paranoia when he was alone. He’d heard that Griffith had received a threat from the mafia, but that everyone in the club was forbidden from telling him any specifics.

On the fourth day of Griffith getting no sleep, Guts started to feel anxious at the sight, the hawk's blue eyes rimmed with red from over-exhaustion. They started speaking less and less, and Guts could feel him pulling away, slowly forcing himself out of the hemisphere of comfort and security they’d formed together over the past few months. 

On the fifth night of no sleep, Griffith slipped silently out of the club in white faux-leather pants, fur coat and brass knuckles. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going, just quietly stepped out and into the alley, walking with his head down. Guts, who was sitting at his usual smoking spot on the roof, watched the angelic figure leave through the alleyway and turn a corner. Without thinking, he extinguished the cigarette and ran. He was flying, down the stairs and out of the club, through the grey alley, around the corner and down the street. He barely felt his feet touch the ground. He barely even knew why he was chasing after Griffith in the first place; they hadn’t spoken in three entire days, but something twisted in his gut as he saw him leave, something like a thread pulling him towards the other. He skidded to a halt in front of a large warehouse by the pier. 

_What?_

Everything about the building was sending off alarm bells in his head. He felt the imminent danger and how, if he went any closer, he felt like he might die. A flash of white caught his eye from inside the warehouse and he jogged around to the back where a broken window gave him a clear view of the interior of the building. He couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but Guts could see a pack of mobsters surrounding Don Gennon, whose greedy hands cupped the tender white flesh of Griffith’s bare chest. The hawk was crying.

_No._

Time slowed, seconds turning to minutes as Guts’ heartbeat resonated deafeningly in his ears.

_What is this?_

his hands formed a fist.

_What the fuck is going on?_

And then he was moving again.

There were gunshots. Men shouted, blood hitting the ground as fists pounded them into the dirt. Griffith stood like a deer in headlights at first but was suddenly fighting now too, half-naked with fresh tears staining his cheeks. Silver glinted off his knuckles as animalistic rage flashed behind his eyes. 

Guts felt bones break under his fists, men cry out in agony, but he was seeing red and he just couldn’t stop. _He couldn’t stop_. Even as don Gennon’s knife cut Griffith’s pale skin in a half-hearted attempt to take control of the situation, Guts didn’t stop, his fists moving on their own as men fell, guns shook free from their hands, blood slick on the warehouse floor. Realizing defeat, the don fled before Guts had time to notice. His hands were wrist-deep in gore until finally Griffith’s screaming had broken the spell and snapped him out of his destructive state. His fists stilled as the warehouse sat silent, steam rising from the mess left after the carnage. 

The two sat in silence for a moment, their laboured breathing echoing in the silence of the warehouse. As the destruction slowly dawned on Guts he sat mesmerized, staring down at his own hands in a mix of awe and terror. Griffith started to shake uncontrollably, the shallow cuts from the don’s knife running blood down onto his white pants. 

“I could’ve handled it myself.”

Guts looked up again, anger resurfacing. 

“ _Handled_ it?! He was seconds away from putting his hands down your pants.”

Griffith wiped his face, leaving a red smear.

“I told you. I could’ve handled it.”

The hawk’s knees buckled underneath him and Guts caught him as he crumpled to the floor, legs shaking like a fawn. 

“He got away,” Griffith whispered into Guts’ chest. 

“I know. we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

* * *

The walk home from the warehouse was silent. Griffith didn’t stop shaking, clutching at his fur jacket in an attempt to cover his bare chest. His breath was hot against Guts’ neck as he carried him, arms looped underneath his knees and spine. When they reached the club, Casca burst out in tears, running to Griffith with gauze and antiseptic in hand. The others just watched in fearful silence as their leader was carried like a child up the stairs and into his office. Casca made Guts leave him there, pushing him out of the doorframe with an intensity he wasn’t expecting. There he was left standing outside the door of Griffith’s office, holding his white fur coat, staining red handprints into the fabric. 

“Son of a bitch.”

Corkus and Judeau appeared behind him, holding the envelope with the condom. 

Guts sat with the two for a better part of an hour as they explained the don’s threat. He was silent for most of it, just quietly staring down at the manilla envelope, turning it over in his hands. 

Griffith was planning on sleeping with the don to protect him. He would let that foul old man put his hands on him in order to protect _him_. The thought made him dizzy. Thinking of Griffith with that man made him want to punch something.

“I could’ve killed that old fuck.”

Judeau and Corkus were quiet.

“He… didn’t want to involve you. Griffith has a long history with don Gennon, so he didn’t want to get a newcomer like you mixed up in old grudges.”

“Still, he didn’t have to do… _that_. I’m just a fighter.”

“Well yeah, but…”

Judeau trailed off, looking at Corkus for an answer. The other shrugged. 

The two left Guts with an apathetic smile as he continued to stare down at the envelope. His chest clenched painfully as the image of Griffith, bare-chested and brass knuckles in hand, his teeth bared, flashed in his mind. White on red, an angel dancing between pools of blood, innocent yet seductive, fighting alongside him, wild and ravenous. _Things will be different after this_ , he thought, glancing back at the closed door to Griffith's office.


	7. The Bond

Guts was still sitting outside Griffith’s room, envelope in hand when he heard the door open behind him as Casca slipped out. She glared down at him as a weak voice called out from behind her, beckoning him inside. Griffith looked pale and nearly half his size laying there in bed, bandages smattered along his thin torso. Up until then, Guts had almost been convinced Griffith couldn’t bleed. His lips were chapped and his eyes were red. Guts leaned down to sit next to him on the small bed, a worried expression on his face. With some effort, Griffith sat up to sit beside him, using his shoulder to support himself. The club was silent, and the sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow into the room. Guts remembered that first morning he’d spent in this same room, when Griffith had sat illuminated in the light of daybreak, radiating confidence. Now he looked small, and embarrassed, swaddled in a white sheet, unable to find the words to explain his behaviour- to apologize for dragging Guts into this mess.

“The mafia will come after the club now. We’ve basically declared war.”

“yeah.”

The crisp sheets shifted as Guts felt a warm weight on his shoulder. Griffith’s lips brushed against his skin as he talked, head tucked into the crook of his neck.

“Whatever happens, promise me you’ll stand with me.”

“yeah.”

Guts waited for a response, but it never came. Griffith’s breathing became heavy and rhythmic, and glancing down, Guts could see the tops of long white eyelashes drawn closed.

After the day of the fight in the warehouse, Griffith and Guts were practically inseparable. To the others, the change was quite subtle, and only Casca really took note, as she was as jealous of the two as ever. During the day it was business as usual, with Guts sparring various members of the Hawk in the ring while Griffith and Casca gave pointers. He continued to be enrolled into matches, and he continued winning them, thus the club continued to support itself, and all was seemingly well. However, at night it was a different story. As the other fighters began to leave for the day, Griffith would become clingy, sometimes even needy towards Guts. He insisted they stayed together at all times, under the pretence that the mafia could strike at any minute. Their evenings usually would consist of Griffith having a bath, Guts keeping watch at the door, then afterwards they would both climb into bed, Guts’ arm tossed across Griffith’s chest as he read to him until he fell asleep. Casca would sometimes find them in the mornings like that, splayed across the small mattress, Guts’ arm thrown around his partner’s pale shoulders, both peacefully dozing.

That was what had set off her jealousy initially. Other times she’d see Guts return from a fight and Griffith would be the first to rush over to him, pressing ice to his head and whispering close to his face, her blood boiling all the while. As time went on, the other guys in the club started to gossip as well.

“Just me, or has Griff gotten real hot for Guts lately?” Corkus, half-jokingly, had brought it up during one of their smoke breaks.

“Wouldn't you, if you had some guy pulverize twenty mafia guys in order to save you? Man’s a beast, I tell ya…” another one of the fighters pitched in.

The day Griffith came back from the warehouse, Casca had gotten into a big argument with him. She remembered crying, and saying something along the lines of “let me be your weapon”, but Griffith looked on at her pitifully, almost as if to say she could never live up to the task. She’d barely spoken to him since. Looking around the group of men who she smoked with, she smiled briefly. Despite the mafia fiasco, Guts’ winning streak in his matches had only improved, and the club was stronger than ever. It was only a matter of time before it all fell apart again.


End file.
